


Rearrangement

by Nny



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:20:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It had been a nice day, until they'd left Tadfield – apocalyptic thunderstorms and the like, which had been making ready, were unwilling to go on their way without a small show of resistance; sullen clouds loomed low over the English countryside and rain that was virtually horizontal was blatting against the glass and almost entirely obscuring the view.</i></p><p><i>"I'm sorry," he continued, a little more politely. "What was it you were saying?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rearrangement

Aziraphale stopped conducting the Handel and frowned out of the windscreen.

"You might want to put the windscreen wipers on, you know." It had been a nice day, until they'd left Tadfield – apocalyptic thunderstorms and the like, which had been making ready, were unwilling to go on their way without a small show of resistance; sullen clouds loomed low over the English countryside and rain that was virtually horizontal was blatting against the glass and almost entirely obscuring the view.

"I'm sorry," he continued, a little more politely. "What was it you were saying?"

"I _said_ , that could have gone a _hell_ of a lot worse." Crowley paused, then shrugged. "Literally, actually."

"Oh. Yes," said the angel. "I suppose you're right."

"It happens more often than you give me credit for." He scowled at the clouds for a second, then pulled his sunglasses down his nose and squinted over the top of them. "Lot of fuss about nothing, when it came down to it, which shouldn't surprise me with this lot. It's like I say – it's not about individuals, not any more. You can't spend a year picking away at one soul any more than you can expect the fate of the world to rest on the shoulders of an eleven year old boy. People are people everywhere, and the important part of that is they're not, you know, _persons_."

"That's a bit pessimistic, isn't it?"

"I know, usually your line. I'm just saying that it was all a bit of a pantomime. I mean, giving all that power to a kid who's been brought up on Saturday morning cartoons and the works of Franklin W. Dixon, most likely."

"Which wasn't exactly what was intended…"

"Which, I'll grant you, was not exactly what was intended." Crowley spared him a quick sideways glance. "Only maybe it _was_. We don't _know_ , do we. What was all that you were saying about ineffability?"

"Oh," said Aziraphale vaguely, staring out of the window at a field of bedraggled cows. "That was all for show. Actually I thought we were all going to die."

Crowley snorted.

"That's what's so great about you, angel. That sunny outlook of yours. Is that in the mission statement? Anyway, as I was saying – could be we were doing exactly the right thing all along, in any case."

"Yes, but you're a demon." Aziraphale still wasn't looking at him. "I don't know if it's actually possible for you to do good."

"What's put you in this mood?" The Jeep swerved onto the wrong side of the road for a second, passing a mini and narrowly avoiding getting flattened by an articulated lorry. Aziraphale's knuckles were white around the end of the armrest. "Before we left it was all wine and ineffability and now – "

"And now I've had time to wonder if we're going to get into terrible trouble for all this."

Crowley pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and switched on the windscreen wipers. He'd preferred it, on reflection, when the angel'd been looking out of the window – he looked wretched.

"I'd rather not think about that."

"We did – " Aziraphale's hands were twisting together in his lap and Crowley beat a sharp tattoo on the steering wheel to try and rid himself of the urge to grab the pale hands and force him to stop. "We _did_ do the right thing, didn't we? When it came down to it?"

"I'm not sure it's actually possible for you to do evil," said Crowley, trying to sound reassuring.

"I hope so," answered the angel, quietly. "I really do hope so."

There were tailbacks on the M25 – it was no great surprise. Somehow, Handel's water music did very little to fill the silence between them, and Crowley was almost relieved when the angel didn't invite him in for a cup of tea. Almost. He stayed where he was, the Jeep's engine idling, until the shop door had closed and a distant light had switched on – the kitchen, if he was any judge.

"Bollocks," he said, to no one and nothing in particular, and switched the windscreen wipers back on as he pulled away.

It was going to be a dark and stormy night.

*

Sleep was not something that the angel had ever managed to quite get a taste for. It had always seemed rather a waste of time one might use for reading, only there was nothing he could quite manage to settle to and there was only so much tea that even an angel could manage to drink.

Aziraphale was lying on his back on the sagging sofa in the back room of his shop, watching occasional flashes of lightning starkly delineate the cracks on his ceiling, his hands laced together and resting on his stomach. There had been an exceedingly local lightning strike a while before and he had rather taken advantage – it wasn't as though anyone else would be in the shops at this time of night, and the small localised black out had meant he hadn't had to struggle his way out of the mire of cushions in order to turn off the lamp.

He wasn't thinking about anything in particular – or rather, he was trying not to think about anything in particular. He'd rather hoped that Crowley might have suggested a cup of tea, or a continuation of the drinking they'd started earlier; he would have been able to ungraciously give way, overtly grumpy in case of watchers, and distract himself comfortably from the discomforting thoughts that were preying on his mind.

Ineffability, that was the problem. It was rather hard working out what was supposed to be the right thing to do when the very nature of God precluded any sort of understanding – as far as he was concerned, what they had ended up with had … well, _felt_ right. A sort of narratively satisfying ending, as though it could be underscored and left, a new chapter begun. His conscience hadn't really been pricking him at all, which was somewhat unprecedented when it came to working with Crowley – it had dulled over time, that was certain, but there were still always the traces of uneasiness. Not this time. Only, well, whether or not it felt like the right thing to do there was unfortunately rather a difference between what was right according to Himself, and what was right according to those Above. It would be nice to believe they might sweep it all under the carpet, what with having been got the better of by a gang of eleven year olds and a singularly inept grouping of occult – or ethereal, if you like – influences. It would be _nice_ to believe that.

At this rate he'd be worrying himself all – well. He'd be worrying himself. And there was no harm in _asking_.

Aziraphale rolled to his feet, stomach still sloshing faintly, and decisively shifted the desk – a rather easier undertaking than usual, since it had yet to collect the usual layer of papers and books and book-binding bits and pieces. He knelt down to roll up the threadbare carpet, then tutted and went in search of a piece of chalk; Adam, thorough as he unquestionably had been, hadn't managed to restore things quite as they had been.

A large circle was traced on the floorboards with great care. It had really been an awfully long time since he'd done this, and his mind was rather too occupied for the precise recollection there ought to be, so he improvised. A couple of verses from the Cabala, some of the nicer sections of John's interesting Revelations, and a snatch or two of poetry that the Metatron had always rather liked. He lit seven white candles, placing them at equidistant points around the circumference.

Then he stood in the center of the circle, cleared his throat, and uttered the Words.

A bright blue light shot down from the ceiling and filled the circle. After a minute or so, Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably.

"Er. Hello?"

There was no answer, although the light remained just as bright as ever. The angel hunched his shoulders a little.

"Hello? Anyone there?"

Of course there _was_ someone there, that was the thing. He could _tell_. There was a very vivid impression that someone or other was listening, quite possibly with pen poised and notebook waiting.

"I'll. Er." His voice sounded rather thin, all of a sudden. "I'll just be going then, shall I?"

Still no answer, and Aziraphale walked rather briskly out of the circle; it had been worth a try, worth the effort to find out, and if it hadn't worked it felt rather as though that had been for the best, when all was said and done.

The blue light didn't fade away, though. Not even when he blew out the candles.

*

The houseplants were trembling.

It was almost possible to see them leaning away from the unfortunate diefenbacchia that had dared to lose a leaf some time in the night.

The day had dawned far brighter than the night would have suggested, small wispy clouds looking freshly laundered, birds singing, sunlight pouring in through the window and throwing the side of Crowley's face, half turned away from the window, into shadow. He was tapping the withered leaf against his lips, seemingly lost in thought.

The diefenbacchia wilted slightly.

"To be," Crowley eventually mused quietly to himself, "or not to be. That is… a bloody stupid question."

Because it was always about being. Being, and continuing to be, and living to be another day.

Only then there had been Antichrists, and apocalypses, and the angel's voice with a polite 'excuse me'. And there had been the conviction that things were going to be Okay, only then they weren't again, and it had felt worth _fighting_ for. Tyre irons didn't amount to much, and even running he'd only have managed another five minutes or so, but he'd have _had_ those five minutes. Only he didn't.

Which was where the whole mess started up again.

He wanted to think it was because five minutes wasn't all that long, anyway. And because the heroes never went down without a fight – only when in the Hell had he started thinking of himself as a Big Damn Hero?

It was all the bloody angel's fault, that was what it was.

Crowley grabbed his jacket and his car keys, and slammed the front door on his way out.

Some indefinable tension that had permeated the flat eased, slightly… Until he slammed back in again, and picked up the diefenbacchia.

"Thought I'd gone bloody soft, didn't you? Ha. You should be so lucky."

This time, when he slammed the door, it was hard enough to make a picture fall off the wall.

*

"Aziraphale, you about? Brought you a plant."

Crowley put the pot down on the counter, picking up a book and idly leafing through it. It was pleasantly cool in the bookshop – it always was. Huge bookcases piled higgledy-piggledy made a mockery of window dressers in the upwardly mobile shops surrounding – although it had to be admitted that most of them tended towards blacked out windows or discreet blinds. It was a source of endless amusement that all of this had accreted around Aziraphale. There was probably a metaphor involving pearls in there, somewhere, but it was edging a little too close to Biblical rhetoric for Crowley to feel comfortable expanding. In any case, the light that _did_ manage to wend its way into the shop was diffused and indirect, making it impossible to see for the moment or two of adjustment from the bright sunlight outside.

He always made a point of moving the umbrella stand a crucial couple of inches to the right, before leaving.

Aziraphale insisted that the lack of light was the best thing for the books, and that was no doubt true, but Crowley couldn't help but think that it wasn't the _whole_ reason. The fact that it seemed to discourage more customers than not had to be more than a happy coincidence.

"What are you doing here?"

The angel's fluffy head was poking around the top of one of the bookshelves – playing with his kickstool again. It wasn't exactly his most welcoming tone of voice; Crowley folded his arms defensively and managed to poke himself hard with the corner of the book.

"Well that's a nice welcome, isn't it. No 'hello, Crowley', no 'how're you coping with continued existence'…"

"Hello, Crowley." Resignation, in his voice, but the faintest touch of laughter too. Enough that Crowley held hopes that he might get offered a cup of tea later. "How are you today?"

"See, that's more like it. One of these days we're going to manage a polite greeting first time around, and from then we might even progress to _compliments_ , although I wouldn't want to rush you. I mean, it's only been six thousand years."

Aziraphale chuckled softly, and Crowley found himself grinning in return. And then the angel spoke again, and his jaw dropped.

" _I do not love you except because I love you._ "

"…what?"

"Neruda." Aziraphale nodded at the book he had in his hand, and Crowley thankfully dropped his gaze, his brain making entirely unhelpful noises. "It goes on the second shelf to your left, somewhere between that book on pottery and _Being and Nothingness_. If you would?"

"Right." He looked vaguely at the book for a second or two longer, then went over to shove it on the bookshelf. "And what," regaining composure, which was rather easier with his back turned, "kind of cataloguing system is that, anyway? How's anyone supposed to find anything?"

The stool clattered across the floor, and Crowley turned to face the angel, who was a good deal closer than he'd been.

"If people only looked where they _ought_ to be looking, my dear boy, they'd only ever find what they thought they wanted. This way, they might well find what they actually _need_."

Crowley blinked. Sometimes sunglasses were a ble- a very good thing.

"Yeah, that or you're just being a contrary b- "

"Now now, Crowley." The laughter in his voice was considerably more pronounced. "There's no need for language like that."

"Language like what? You didn't give me a chance to say anything."

"I could hear you _thinking_ it."

"Insinuations are all in the eye of the beholder, angel. Could be I was thinking innocent thoughts about puppies, and, you know, rainbows."

Aziraphale shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and entirely failing to suppress his laughter, and Crowley could feel himself grinning somewhat idiotically in return. It was a hell of a relief, far more than he'd anticipated, to know that nothing had changed.

"You going to offer me a cup of tea, then?"

And Aziraphale cast a glance towards the back room, and when he looked back the smile had entirely faded.

"I really don't think that's ever such a good idea."

"Oh."

"It's not necessary, is it?"

Crowley's stomach squirmed.

"Necessary?"

"Well if you've something I really ought to know – "

"Not today. I've got stuff I should be doing in any case." Crowley saluted ironically, stung far more than he'd ever have thought he'd be. "I'll see you when you need something, angel. Ciao."

The door shut behind him with a satisfying clatter, and he stood for a moment or two, feeling oddly bereft. And then he shoved his hands in his pockets, and mustered up a smirk, and sauntered in the direction of Oxford Street; no rest for the wicked, after all.

*

"Bugger."

Aziraphale waved a hand and the sign on the door flipped over the 'closed', the lock clicking shut. He kicked the stool out of his way and it fell over with a crash and rolled to a halt in the children's section. (Although he didn’t believe that adults should have any help perpetuating their tastes, there was a clearly defined section of books for the young – he looked on it as something of a public service and made sure to disrupt the Sky television signal in the local area, every now and again.)

"Bugger and blast."

The pile of books on the counter that he'd been meaning to get around to reshelving for some weeks now loomed at him accusingly, but he ignored them in favour of picking up the plant Crowley had left and carrying it with him into the back room. The door swung shut behind him silently as he cast around for somewhere to deposit the pot, and he eyed the bright blue shaft of light that had yet to dissipate balefully.

"Dash it," he muttered, half under his breath.

The kitchen, he decided, would suit. It was the only place downstairs in this building that got any real light, and killing Crowley's plant would just be the icing on the cake. Skirting the circle had become habit, and Aziraphale fussed around with saucer and water, placing the plant Just So, before he came back out into the back room and stepped deliberately into the circle.

"Well?"

His tone of voice was rather less deferential than the last time. Again, there was no answer, but the quality of the silence felt as though it had changed slightly. Aziraphale folded his arms.

"I'm waiting…"

Still no reply.

Frustrated, Aziraphale frowned and disentangled his arms, one hand on his hip and the other with finger waving.

"Look, I won't have you playing silly buggers with me, you know. I'm far more likely to know the rules. If you have something to say to me, I'd much rather you said it and got it over with."

It dawned on him, all of a sudden, that he was shaking his finger at the collected Company of Heaven. It was not something he made a habit of, to put it mildly. The finger went on wagging for a moment or two quite without his volition, and then he folded it back into his hand safely.

"Yes. Well." Aziraphale cleared his throat, uncomfortable, feeling rather like a duck squawking defiance at the QE2. "If you'd like to have a word, you know where I am. Obviously. If not, I have work I ought to be doing." And he stepped decisively out of the circle and went to make himself a bolstering cup of tea.

A little later on the day was improved, rather, when he found that sweeping into the circle caused the dust to disappear with a pleasant sort of 'twing'. It was certainly going to make cleaning somewhat easier, although he did wonder vaguely where it went.

*

The boiled sweet hit the businessman in the back of the head with a damp little noise and slid slowly down the hair, anchoring itself just above the collar of his particularly expensive shirt. He whirled around instantly, his glare focussing on the woman with her young son, standing next to the suave looking guy in the sunglasses.

"What the hell did you throw at me, you little brat?"

The woman drew herself up to her full height and glared right back.

"What did you call my son?"

"I'll call him worse than that, lady." He passed his hand over the back of his head, and made a disgusted face. "What the hell is this? You should keep better bloody control of your spawn!"

" _Spawn?_ "

Crowley went on his way, smirking to himself. It had been a pretty productive day, all told; since Aziraphale had refused to lay any sort of claim to Traffic Wardens he'd considered them fair game and had directed their footsteps accordingly. Third time this week along the same few streets, and he could almost taste the outrage. He could virtually smell…

Wait. What the hell _was_ that –

"Hullo, Crowley."

 _Oh_ , said Crowley's internal monologue helpfully. _Shit_.

"Hastur!" The tone of voice was almost dripping with 'ol' buddy, ol' pal' but the thought process behind it was more like that of a rat backed into a corner. "Long time no see."

"Not really."

"No." Crowley cleared his throat, and looked from side to side with an air of poorly concealed desperation. "Suppose not."

Hastur stepped out of the doorway in which he'd been lurking, squinting in the bright sunlight, and bent down a little, his thin face twisted into the nastiest smile Crowley'd seen since they stopped putting the heads up on London Bridge.

"Hows about you and me go somewhere for a little chat, eh?"

"Chat," said Crowley hopelessly. "Yeah."

 

It was Sunday. The first day of the rest of the world.

Around three thirty.

St James' park was reasonably deserted – the world was still trying to pick up the pieces after an event that no one could quite remember. There were a couple of students, holding hands and trying not to catch each others' eyes, and a tall man feeding the ducks.

And there were also Crowley and Hastur.

They sauntered side by side across the grass. In actual fact, Hastur was doing most of the actual _sauntering_. Crowley was moving more in a sort of deferential crouch.

"Been visiting old friends this morning, Crowley, have we?"

"Don't know what you – "

"Funny thing. There was me thinking 'is bookshop'd all burned down. Right to the ground. Now where would I get to be thinking somethin' like that, eh?"

"Um. Because it did. Sort of."

"Terrible shame, that." Hastur's voice was oozing concern, and Crowley's mouth was dragged up at the corners into something that wasn't so much a grin as it was a terrified rictus. "Angel was lucky to survive."

"Yeah, well. He wasn't in it at the time."

And Hastur stopped. Dead.

"And how would you, Crowley, be knowing a thing like that? Not your place to go knowing a thing like that now, is it?"

"…er."

"Fraternisin' with the enemy," said Hastur, in a voice with far too much unholy glee. "That's what they call that. Wouldn't like to think what'd happen to you if the Boss himself got hold of information like that, Crowley. I'm looking forward to the punishments you will receive. The lowest imp, in the nethermost pit of Hell, will pity you. The most damned of all damned souls, Crowley, will rejoice over the fact that they are not you." And his laugh was like rusted chains. And Crowley shuddered.

"You think the Boss doesn't know?"

Hastur's eyes narrowed, a gleam of animal cunning in them.

"He's not been in touch yet, has he?"

Only he wasn't quite careful enough, and Crowley could hear the genuine question in his voice. And a slow, a very slow grin started to spread across his face.

"He didn't talk to you first?" He shook his head, slowly, sucking air in between his teeth. It hissed, and his grin spread a little further. "So you're working on your own initiative, then. And that always goes down well Below, of course."

Hastur's grin hadn't faded at all, but it was rather frozen.

"Could be promotional material, that could. 'Course, there's not much in the way of actual opportunities when you're a Duke of Hell. Not unless someone else makes way first." His grin was wide now, wide and careless and bordering on the manic. "Maybe I should be telling Dagon to watch his back, eh?"

"Oh, you're gonna suffer," said Hastur, but his voice lacked the menace it'd had before. Now it was bordering on the sullen.

"Probably true." And it probably was.

"But not today."

*

Aziraphale brushed the last of the breadcrumbs off his hands decisively. The park didn't have nearly the calming effect it ought to when Crowley wasn't there.

Except – as the angel turned to go, and caught sight of the only other inhabitants of the park (the students having gone long since, to avoid each others' eyes somewhere rather more private) – Crowley _was_ there. And looking rather harried. Or, well, harried in that particularly Crowley way, which seemed to involve somewhat crazed grins and ridiculously suicidal actions. It was in some hopes of preventing the latter that Aziraphale headed over, managing to catch the end of a conversation.

" – tomorrow, though. I'd watch out if I were you."

"Yes well. If you're going to have eternal torment, best it always start tomorrow."

"Good afternoon, gentlemen."

They both turned to face the approaching angel, Crowley's expression dissolving into something rather closer to panic once more. Hastur's welcoming sneer was just about as bad, and Aziraphale considered him for a moment and then pointed a finger in his direction.

"Begone," he instructed the demon pleasantly, "foul fiend."

There was a rushing of wind, and a pop that made the hearer feel as though their eardrums had just been turned inside out. The angel smiled, satisfied; Crowley was still gaping at the space where Hastur had been.

"…did I know you could do that?"

"No," Aziraphale told him smugly. "In spite of much provocation, might I add."

"Where's he gone?"

"I'm not entirely sure." At Crowley's faintly horrified look, he smiled innocently. "There's a tendency towards home, I've found, wherever that might be. Or else, for some reason, Wolverhampton."

"And it'll last – ?"

"Not all that long, really." His smile melted into a look that was stranded somewhere between nervous and hopeful. "I don't suppose you'd like to repair somewhere for a nice cup of tea?"

"Depends," said Crowley, and he folded his arms. "Is it really necessary?"

The angel shifted his weight uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together.

"Ah, yes. About that, Crowley – "

"Yes," said Crowley. "About that. I wouldn't like to think I was cramping your style, angel, so I'll just be off. If you need anything, you have my number."

Aziraphale watched him walk away, and it was a good few minutes before he noticed that he was still rubbing his hands together fretfully.

"Right," the angel said, softly.

*

"Right," rather more angrily this time, as he stormed into the back room of his shop and stood in the middle of the circle of blue light, hands on hips. "Now listen to me. I've had it just about up to here," he demonstrated, "with all of this mucking about. Either you have something to say or you don't. If you do, very well. I'm more than ready to hear it. If you _don't_ then I'd thank you to allow me to get on with my work in a room with a _carpet_ , as Himself no doubt intended."

Continued silence, for a minute or two, then the sound of a cleared throat.

It wasn’t the sort of noise that indicated a persistent tickle; rather more the annoying reedy sound of someone determined to indicate their continued presence while wishing to appear humble, as though their greatest wish was to not go causing any sort of bother. Aziraphale, startled, took a step backwards, quite out of the circle.

In response, the light intensified, concentrating itself into an area that would be a little taller than a regular human if the shoulders weren't quite so hunched. Gradually the light solidified and faded, leaving in its wake an angel in a rather threadbare robe of a colour that had probably been white before he'd taken to wiping his pen on it. He had a pronounced stoop, probably exacerbated by the (admittedly impressive) wings that sprouted from his back – the lush plumage threw into sharper relief his rather thinning blond hair.

He was brushing dust off his robe, with rather a pointed glare.

"Oh heck," said Aziraphale, quite without meaning to. And then, collecting himself, "er, hello, Gabriel. Tea?"

The other angel stepped over the chalk line fastidiously, moving rather as though he wasn't quite used to walking. He took his time looking around the somewhat shabby back room, and Aziraphale had to stand with his hands firmly in pockets in order to suppress the urge to bustle about, tidying up bits and pieces. He was embarrassingly aware of the dirty mugs by the sofa, the newspaper spread across the table with its half-finished crossword, the numerous books that cluttered virtually every surface.

"And this is how you live, is it?"

"Um," said Aziraphale. "Well, yes, actually. It's more comfortable than you'd – "

"Why?"

"Because – " he paused, slightly off-balance, then rallied. "Because it provides a useful cover. Not to mention the fact that I was instructed to learn about them. For more effective thwarting, you know. And they do so love to write about various vices. Crowley said – "

"Ah. Yes."

And Aziraphale bit his tongue, rather painfully.

" _Crowley_." The palpable distaste in the archangel's voice was as bad as the most telling moue of distaste, though his expression didn't change. It was the aural equivalent of watching someone pick up something distasteful at careful arms length, with tongs.

"Yes," he answered with some defiance. "Crowley."

"The demon." Gabriel ran his finger along one of the bookshelves that lined the walls, rubbing his fingers together afterwards and looking rather at the dust than at Aziraphale. "He was against Hell, at the end. Explain, please."

And somehow defending Crowley's actions, defending _Crowley_ , was far easier than if Gabriel had asked for an explanation of how he had, when it came down to it, stood in defiance of Heaven.

"He's not so bad, once you get used to him." A look at the archangel's expression and he continued, hurriedly. "I mean, he's doing his job, rather as I am. And his job is humanity, and it seemed so – " another pause. It was rather like navigating a minefield – "he couldn't see the reasoning behind it. I think he's grown rather fond of humans."

"Hmm."

And Gabriel turned, and met his eyes and… clearly it had been entirely too long. Aziraphale had forgotten how it felt to be at the other end of that sort of look – impersonal compassion. And the feeling that one's sins were written across the back of one's head, in very great detail, there for the reading. He quailed, rather.

"Very well," the archangel eventually concluded, and Aziraphale shook himself, watching as Gabriel delicately stepped back into the circle. "As you were."

The blue light winked out of existence at the same time as Gabriel did, and Aziraphale breathed easily for the first time in a good long while, it felt like. He knelt to roll the carpet back into place, and he didn't even mind the fact that his hands were shaking.

He ought to tell Crowley.

That was just what he ought to do.

*

"Hi."

Crowley was sitting on the exceedingly stylish sofa in his apartment, flicking playing cards into the bowl he'd set over by the television.

His aim was perfect.

It sort of ruined the point.

"This is Anthony Crowley. Uh. I'm probably not in right now – "

He scowled at his answering machine, the ace of hearts bouncing off the rim of the bowl and skidding across the floor. Who'd be calling him, in any case? If it was telemarketers again, he had a good mind to do something really bloody rotten to them.

They'd seemed like such a good idea at the time, too.

" – or asleep, and busy, or something, but if you leave your name and, y'know, number – "

"I'll be sure to phone back when I know you're in the bloody shower and hang up _just_ as you get to the phone," he muttered wrathfully.

" _BeeeEEeeeEEeee_."

"Hello, Crowley."

The angel's voice. Warmer than it had been; back to normal, in fact, and it was kind of odd to think quite how friendly 'normal' was. Quite how pleased Aziraphale often seemed, to see him.

"I wouldn't dream of insinuating that you might be sitting there listening to this message, my dear, but if you _should_ happen to hear it in the next couple of hours, or so, I'll be at the Ritz. And I believe I owe you dinner."

The gentle click of the receiver was echoed by the four of hearts hitting the television screen.

If only Aziraphale'd be consistent somehow, he'd be a hell of a lot easier to bloody resent in peace, was Crowley's considered opinion. He got up and walked over to the table, grabbing his keys and his sunglasses and shrugging into his jacket. It'd be easier, after all, to resent him from up close.

Crowley slammed out of his apartment, determined to order the most obnoxiously expensive thing on the menu.

And he wouldn't let the angel steal dessert, either.

*

"'snot like I'd let you get _eaten_ by the bear. Not entirely - "

" - thass dreadfully kind of you, m'dear – "

" – just use you as a diver. Thing. Sion. Chew on you a bit, find a sneak, stick up on him, pow! Bob's your distant cousin."

"Pow?"

"Pow."

"Gosh."

Crowley propped himself a little more securely on the angel's shoulder and stared at the side of his face.

"'sa very polite bear," he eventually offered. Aziraphale appeared to be too busy searching through various pockets for his keys to offer an opinion on that.

"Aha!" The angel managed to get the keys into the lock on his third try, and he turned his head and smiled in a way that was reassuring and familiar and doing exceedingly odd things to Crowley's stomach. He carefully disentangled himself, taking a moment to find his balance, and stepped away.

"I'll be – I'll be, y'know – "

" – coming in to help me with a fine Clos Vougeot grand cru? There's a chap."

Burgundy. Damned angel and his damned wine and Crowley couldn't quite remember why he ought to be annoyed at being offered another bottle, but he was doing his damnedest in any case.

"Manip- manipu- crafty bugger," he muttered, as he followed him into the shop.

"Pull up a pew." Aziraphale chuckled to himself as he wandered off to find the corkscrew. "In a manner of speaking, you know."

"Oh, yes. Very – " the demon dropped onto the sofa, then winced and fumbled under himself to extract a particularly pointy _1984_ – "very funny. Hi _lar_ ious. Cheers." This last as a brimming glass of red was placed in his hand. He settled himself a little more comfortably, as Aziraphale lowered himself into the armchair.

"I think," the angel said, staring into his glass of wine, "we ought to talk."

Three and a half bottles of wine were suddenly trying to fight their way out of Crowley's stomach.

"Nothing good ever starts with that."

He was feeling, suddenly, rather more sober.

"I wouldn't say that." The angel was slurring less, too, which wasn't of any particular comfort. "I just thought – well. We've had something of an Arrangement for a good number of years, now."

" – nine hundred odd years – " he muttered into his glass.

"Quite, quite. And it seems a little off to have something so important go without a revision or two, in so long."

"Ha!" said Crowley, bitterly. "Says the side with the _Bibles_."

"Yes, well." He had the grace to look a little uncomfortable, at least. "That's quite beside the point. I just thought I should point out that I don't think it's doing nearly so good a job as it used to."

"Really," Crowley asked, heavily.

"Really. For a start, I'm not at all happy with how often we've been seeing each other."

"Right." The red wine appeared to be at war with the oysters he'd had and he clenched his teeth tightly, head bowed.

"I don't see how I can be expected to have a successful liaison with you if I'm lucky to catch you every six months or so."

"…what?" Crowley lifted his head, not entirely sure he'd heard right. The angel was twiddling the stem of his wineglass between his fingers, seeming entirely occupied with it – a faint flush of pink painted his cheekbones.

"I thought perhaps it might be more fitting to make it a regular thing, you know. Every other week, perhaps."

"Oh. Right." He could feel the smile slowly spreading across his face, and didn't make the slightest effort to stop it.

"And of course the Ritz might well pall, but there's always sushi, or Greek, or – I'm given to understand London's a dreadfully cosmopolitan city, these days." A small answering smile was tugging at the corners of the angel's mouth, too.

"And of course there's always galleries," Crowley added helpfully. "Exhibitions, film festivals, you know."

"It's important to keep abreast of the current distractions from the Church." Aziraphale was entirely failing to appear solemn.

"I think," said Crowley, lifting his glass a little, "that that is something I can happily drink to."

Somewhere, no doubt - muffled by traffic or no - a nightingale was singing.


End file.
